


She slept like a girl, he slept like a dog

by CatLovePower



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e05 Chupacabra, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort-of-tag to episode 2x05, where Carol looks after an injured Daryl. <br/>It was written as a gen fanfic, but could probably be read as Caryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She slept like a girl, he slept like a dog

When Daryl came back to Hershel’s farm, bloody and half dead, nearly killed by his own companions, it broke something deep inside her. After that, Carol no longer cried herself to sleep. He has scared her, more than she would care to admit. In a sense, it wasn’t fair to her daughter. But she didn’t see herself as the mourning type, she had suffered too much, for too long. Maybe she didn’t have enough tears for everyone.

Daryl never really said what went down in the woods, but the blood and grime, the bruises and the ears, it told a terrifying story. Carol didn’t really know why he was so adamant he'd find her missing daughter. Carol just hoped it wasn’t to earn the group’s respect, their trust – he already got that, he just couldn’t see it, couldn’t accept it.

The second night after he nearly died, killed by his own stubbornness, he insisted on sleeping at the camp, outside in his tent. As if he wasn’t worthy of a proper bed in a nice room. Nobody seemed to care, nobody said anything to stop him, and he dragged himself outside the house. Back in his tent, Daryl slept with an arrow clutched in his fingers, day and night.

 

They were eating supper – potatoes and some broth – all around the fire, and he was sleeping in his cot. They were laughing, being happy just to be alive and fed. Carol wasn’t laughing, it wouldn’t have been right, but she was no longer crying either. Not resigned, just broken, with no way to fix it. That’s why she was the one who heard it – the low, keening noise, like a wounded animal.

So she left the comfort of the fire and the happy faces surrounding it, and she approached Daryl’s tent, wary of the archer’s reaction. Maybe he didn’t want her help, her compassion or whatever a grieving mother like her had to offer. The way he had reacted in Hershel’s bedroom had spoken volumes. He hadn’t said anything, but his body had betrayed him, with just a flinch. There was no light inside, no movement either. Just that whining sound she couldn’t ignore. She slipped inside the tent.

 

Lit by the fire outside the flimsy fabric of the tent, she made out Daryl’s silhouette. He was laying on his uninjured side, on his cot, greasy hair obscuring his face. Carol could see the white bandage around his head, and she knew the ugly gash in his side was also tightly bound. She felt silly all of a sudden; he was a grown man, not some little kid who had a bad dream. He wasn’t Sophia.

He whined once again, barely a whisper, but the sound seemed deafening in the stillness of the dark tent. She thought about going to get Hershel. He was obviously in pain, but he was too proud to say anything. He should at least let the old man check his stitches, make sure the wound wasn’t getting infected. But she also knew the stubborn archer wouldn’t like the attention. He had fled the security of the house, retreating to his own tent like a wild coyote hiding in its cave. She couldn’t do that to him. Instead she crouched near the cot, fully conscious that if he woke up with someone that close to him, he would try and stab them with the arrow he was clutching in his sleep.

She refused to be scared and willed her hand not to shake as she reached and smoothed dirty hair on a sweaty brow. Daryl exhaled and stopped making that awful throaty sound. Carol couldn't tell if he was still asleep or only pretending. She decided she could play along anyway. In the darkness, she was suddenly reminded of all those terrible nights when Ed had been drinking and Sophia was crying, too young to understand why her mother was so distressed. Carol didn't miss the bastard, not one bit.

Daryl's features relaxed slightly, and she knew he was truly asleep. He would never allow anyone to see him like that. Peaceful. Carol continued stroking his brow with her thumb. Mindless of the awkwardness of the situation and the way her calves were cramping because of her crouched position. She was tired, sad and frightened, in the mean time she couldn't remember a time she felt so at ease, after all went south. As if, at that precise moment, nothing existed but the light movement of her thumb and the pain slowly ebbing away.

She told herself she'd make sure he'd take some pain meds and get checked by Hershel in the morning. She fleetingly wondered if he missed his bully of a brother as much as she missed her Sophia - a dull ache just beneath the sternum and the feeling that nothing would ever be the same without them - or if he was glad the end of the world took him away.

She felt asleep with her head on the cot and her ass on the cold floor.

 

The sensation of being watched woke her up. She was startled and a tiny bit ashamed when she realized she had spent the night in Daryl's tent. The young man - how young exactly, she could never tell - was looking at her with eyes too bright for her liking. Before she could stop herself, she had raised her hand to check his temperature. Daryl didn't even flinched this time, a testament to how much the fever was messing with his head.

"You're sick," she said.

"You sleep like a girl," he answered, his drawling voice a little uncertain, as if he was asking a question.

"What?" She hadn't been expecting that.

"I watched you sleep a bit. Hope you don't mind. Was nice." He was slurring his words now, and Carol didn't like the way his eyes kept glazing over, as if he wasn't really seeing her.

"Can you stand? You need to see Hershel."

Much to her surprise, Daryl didn't object right away. He actually considered the question, then shook his head slightly.

"Hurts," he rattled, looking at the tent rather than her, as if he didn't like admitting to failure. "Tired."

"Don't sleep," she said, squeezing his hand before leaving the tent to find the vet.

 

Outside, everyone was still asleep and the fire was out, despite the sunrise. She knew Daryl wouldn't want to make a fuss so she entered the house without knocking. As she hoped, Hershel was already up, idly looking at some photographs in a leather-bound album. His brow was creased and he looked tired; Carol wondered if he slept at all.

"Is the redneck giving you trouble?" he asked without raising his head. And while Carol didn't really like the moniker - even though it was probably accurate - she was glad the old man was so observant. She shook her head, then realized he didn't see her.

"He's in pain. He has a fever..."

"He's stubborn as hell and he should have stayed in bed," Hershel corrected. But he put the album aside and stood up. "Take my bag, will you."

 

In his lonely tent, her wounded redneck was sleeping again and Carol recoiled slightly when they came in, because the air smelled of sickness and death. If she slept like a girl, then he was sleeping like a dying dog, she thought.

Hershel crouched beside the cot, muttering something about his bad knee, but despite his rough exterior, his gestures were gentle and precise. He checked the wound, then gave Daryl a shot of what Carol assumed were antibiotics. Those were hard to come by.

"I can't start an IV," Hershel said, not even bothering to whisper. "So he'll need to drink as soon as he wakes up."

"Will... Will he be okay?" Carol asked in a faint voice.

"Probably," the vet said with a shrug.

She resisted the urge to smash her fists against his chest, because probably wasn't good enough. But it was the best one could hope for in these apocalyptic times, she thought. Her daughter was probably still alive four days ago. She was probably dead by now. It was probably better not to know.

"I gave him painkillers as well. Strong ones. Make sure he doesn't stop breathing."

"Shouldn't we wake him up?"

"His body needs to heal, even though he's too stubborn to do that in a proper house."

A house where everyone treats him like an animal and calls him a dirty redneck, Carol thought, strangely bitter all of a sudden.

"He'll be alright," the vet said, but Carol knew it was those doctors' lies destined to make you feel better, make you stronger.

She shook her head anyway because any comfort was good for her.

"He's lucky to have you," Hershel added before going out.

"We're lucky to have him," Carol whispered to herself. "We don't even realize how much." 


End file.
